Long As A Vet's Glove Poem by Ian Bowen

Throughout past movements
of my blunted feather pen,
my mind has been
controlled by frustration.
Pages of depleted reams litter
the cold stone floor
of this uninspiring shed.

Those pins of medals,
never make holes
in my sweat-soaked vest.
No accolades are ever
thrown my way….

as I tried to see life
as a knotted ball of string,
make some sense
of its untidiness,
and unravel
some great victory
in my naive soul.

Now, my face
is as long
as a vet's glove.
My sunken eyes
leave me reading words
that simply return
to scratch and bite,
not fitting,
not rhyming,

not right.